


comfort

by justjessiehere



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Uses His Words, M/M, Mostly Gen, Soft Jaskier | Dandelion, pre slash is def there tho
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-21
Updated: 2020-02-21
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:48:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22825891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justjessiehere/pseuds/justjessiehere
Summary: just a reminder that I haven't read or played The Witcher yet, only seen the series on Netflix!
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, geraskier - Relationship
Comments: 9
Kudos: 98





	comfort

**Author's Note:**

  * For [xdandelionxbloomx](https://archiveofourown.org/users/xdandelionxbloomx/gifts).



> just a reminder that I haven't read or played The Witcher yet, only seen the series on Netflix!

After Jaskier suggests that _maybe_ the sleeplessness is due to a certain Child Surprise, possibly because of sheer bull-headed determination to outrun Destiny, Geralt just… freezes. Stops hauling in the net, allows the chain to slip from his hands and keeps his head tilted to the forest floor. 

It isn’t Pavetta and Duny’s child that’s haunted his dreams these past few nights, nor is it solely the tangled skein of Destiny that’s been buzzing like a deranged cloud of wasps inside his skull, it’s-

”Renfri.”

Jaskier stares at Geralt in shock (he didn’t actually expect any sort of response beyond a grunt) but then sympathy sweeps over his features. He knows enough about the princess, what happened in Blaviken that led to the nickname his songs have worked so hard to erase. But he’s never asked for details - contrary to popular belief, he _knows_ some subjects are too delicate to pursue; that unless they’re offered, you simply _don’t ask._

Jaskier truly looks at Geralt, then- bruises under his eyes, shadows _in_ them, face paler than usual, prominent lines between his brows, mouth set in a grimace– then sidles up to Geralt, grabs his wrist and lowers himself to the ground, dragging the Witcher down with him.

That’s how they end up sitting side by side in front of the water, knees touching, shoulders pressed together. Geralt still has his head tilted towards the ground but tells Jaskier, whispers to him when it’s too much (and dear Melitele, doesn’t that nearly scare the very _soul_ out of Jaskier) about Stregobor and the Curse of the Black Sun, about the men he’d cut down like stalks of wheat, and then _Renfri-_

_Geralt had fought against her, desperately wanting to avoid hurting her even with the threat she’d made, but it was damn near **impossible**. Renfri came at him relentlessly with her sword and then a dagger, eventually both; driving said dagger in his gut then slicing it across his thigh no more than a few heartbeats apart._

_The clashing of swords from blocked blows and grunts of effort had been heavy in the air followed by tension riddled silence as they stared each other down, as he searched Renfri’s face and realized her earlier words were true. She couldn’t, **wouldn’t** stop until one of them was in death throes on the ground– she’d charged him without warning and Geralt had automatically seized her arm, twisted so that it plunged the dagger hilt-deep into her neck then wrenched it back out, blood flowing from the wound like wine from a pitcher._

Geralt’s voice is hoarse as he describes how he’d caught Renfri as the strength fled her body, as she warned him about the girl in the woods; lowered her to the ground as gently as possible while horror sank talons deep into his chest, breaths turning ragged as he tells how her lifeblood had pooled beside her, how he didn’t know if he’d made the right choice or not, that he _hadn’t wanted to be involved in the first fucking place-_

Jaskier’s hand, still on his wrist above his clenched fist, squeezes, pulling him from his memories. The bard’s eyes are suspiciously misty, face drawn and lips pursed. 

Geralt rises unsteadily with Jaskier still clutching at his arm, tries to shake him off while muttering something about how he shouldn’t have told him anything but-

Jaskier is nothing if not persistent, rights himself and slowly uncurls Geralt’s fingers one by one, fills the spaces between them with his own and brings their palms together. 

Informs Geralt that he’s got a room at the nearby tavern and the Witcher will be joining him whether he likes it or not. Geralt is dragged (not unwillingly) to the tavern, forced to eat and then ushered up to the bard’s room. It’s got a decently sized bed, Jaskier’s lute is in its case and propped up next to a table that’s scattered with paper, quills and inkpots-

Jaskier shucks off his shoes and then his doublet, leaving him in his undershirt and pants. He gets comfortable on the bed, sprawling on his back and motioning for Geralt to join him. The Witcher heaves a weary sigh and removes his boots, crawling up on the bed beside the bard because at this point, what does he really have to lose?

Jaskier places a gentle hand on the back of Geralt’s neck and guides his face to the hollow of his throat. At first, Geralt is stunned, manages to choke out a strangled _What are you doing?_ before he’s quietly shushed. An answering murmur of _helping you_ is his only answer as Jaskier pulls him closer, leaving an arm underneath to encircle his shoulders. A warm palm rests on Geralt's upper arm, thumb smoothing calming arcs into his skin.

Geralt winds up with his own arm under Jaskier, the other thrown haphazardly across his waist, legs tangled with the other man’s.

The bard begins to hum after they’ve settled, throat reverberating with a lullaby where Geralt has been tucked close and it’s– surprisingly comforting. Any remaining tension in Geralt’s body slowly seeps out. The familiarity of Jaskier’s scent, (orange blossoms and woodsmoke, ink and rosin), of his voice, his _presence_ calms Geralt’s mind, removes everything else.

Geralt will deny it with his last breath, but he nuzzles into the space below Jaskier’s chin, plasters himself to the body beside his. The bard’s chest hairs are soft against his cheek as he lets loose a contented huff and finally falls into a much needed, dreamless sleep. 

If Jaskier smiles fondly, drawing Geralt that much nearer and presses a kiss to the top of his head… well, it’s no one’s business but his own.

**Author's Note:**

> For xdandelionxbloomx, one of the most wonderful and kind-hearted people I've ever been blessed enough to know <3  
> If you haven't already, go check out their work; they're amazingly talented!


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